something, I could easily glow with pride to think that I was part
and parcel of such antiquity; the fortunate heiress not only of land
and titles, but of historic associations. But as I am an American
with a very recent background, I blow out my candle with the feeling
that it is rather grand to be making history for somebody else to
inherit.



Chapter XIX. The heart of the artist.



I am almost too comfortable with Mrs. Bobby. In fact I wished to be
just a little miserable in Belvern, so that I could paint with a
frenzy. Sometimes, when I have been in a state of almost despairing
loneliness and gloom, the colours have glowed on my canvas and the
lines have shaped themselves under my hand independent of my own
volition. Now, tucked away in a corner of my consciousness is the
knowledge that I need never be lonely again unless I choose. When I
yield myself fully to the sweet enchantment of this thought, I feel
myself in the mood to paint sunshine, flowers, and happy children's
faces; yet I am sadly lacking in concentration, all the same. The
fact is, I am no artist in the true sense of the word. My hope
flies ever in front of my best success, and that momentary success
does not deceive me in the very least. I know exactly how much, or
rather how little, I am worth; that I lack the imagination, the
industry, the training, the ambition, to achieve any lasting
results. I have the artistic temperament in so far that it is
impossible for me to work merely for money or popularity, or indeed